i'm ready for peace talks over bread ( Read more... )

( seeing yourself for the first time. )

there's safety in numbers ( Read more... )

we used to write our pasts down ( Read more... )

today, for the first time ( Read more... )

zenith, let me down please. we are all salable, and God is an opiate. ideas are machines, "on pins & needles" rusty wheels. Duchamp, Duchamp, you renevator. tucan, tucan, tucan sam on the fruit loops box. you are a minimalist, ready-made of wire. painting is dead- art suicide -in the rafters with a toy handgun. she eats her fruit slowly, ( Read more... )

lungs compressed, tight &
caught up in a breath-
less air
with green feet & green eyes
absorbed in green grass
& colored skies
the breadth of her world
crumbles into apple pie
crust & mantle
core
cherry pits fall
in spring &
the angle of the ground dips
she utters,
"i'm sure it's just
the size of my hips."

stuck-oh ceilings & monochrome lights
the gray clock with black fringe
tic tocs with four dots on
my off-white walls
scratched & worn out
of my head by
the games we play in
locked bathroom stalls
boredom kills us all sometimes
can i ask,
what color is the trim
around your windows?
or what type of flowers
grow up too quickly
beside your front

last night i was twisting trying not to break. i noticed black paint stains on yellow cream carpet, white in years past, and fell down on my knees trying to feel a little life in my shins through the fibers. i wanted lights off, "covers tight around," but my puzzled mind wouldn't fit together like headlights through half closed blinds & night ( Read more... )

i smell like single, working mothers & 70's flashbacks, and i'm really not sure anymore if it's better to have gritty salt cheeks & chins, or sahara desert in summertime dry ones. my eyes are tired of shutting so much just to open again, and i wonder sometimes why the sheets on my bed wont warm up on command like they used to ( Read more... )